


The Tallest Tower

by SallyLovette



Category: Animaniacs
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Rape Aftermath, aka drunk yakko
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 21,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21726316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SallyLovette/pseuds/SallyLovette
Summary: He was too young for coffee, but he drank it anyway, stirring in cream and sugar one-handed while memorizing his lines. By the time shooting began, he knew the script by heart, backwards and forwards, inside and out.Warning: this work includes graphic depictions of rape.
Comments: 148
Kudos: 191





	1. Chapter 1

He was too young for coffee, but he drank it anyway, stirring in cream and sugar one-handed while memorizing his lines. By the time shooting began, he knew the script by heart, backwards and forwards, inside and out. He had a sharp wit and peppered every scene with fast-spoken wisecracks and terrible puns; he sang and danced, dropped anvils and swung mallets, had a plethora of catchphrases and broke the fourth wall regularly. His delivery was perfect, and he never missed his cue.

He performed so well that no one ever suspected anything was wrong. He could have spoken up, but (as he later expressed, with much less alacrity than could normally be expected from him) he’d had no reason to do so. He would have died before telling his siblings, and no one else would have believed him. Then there was the risk that someone might put an end to it. He couldn’t have chanced it, he explained.

His eyes had faint shadows underneath. He complained that he was sick of answering questions. Such an intelligent boy should have known perfectly well they were only trying to help him, but he obviously didn’t. He laughed for ten minutes straight when they handed him an anatomically correct doll and instructed him to “show us where the man touched you.” It was only with the greatest show of disdain that he finally complied. 

They caught the guy that did it—a human, not a toon ("go figure," Dot sneered) with some kind of twisted fetish.

"What's a fetish?" Wakko asked Dot, whispering because Yakko was standing right there.

Dot wasn’t sure, exactly. "It's—uh…"

"It’s a form of sexual desire in which gratification is linked to an abnormal degree to a particular object," Yakko said. "In this case, cartoons."

"What's his name?" Dot asked, as if the fact that Yakko was talking again, suddenly, without ceremony, was no big deal.

Yakko read out loud from the indictment. 

"Is that really the guy who attacked you, Yakko?" Wakko stood on tiptoes to see the man's photograph. He didn't look like a pedophile. He was handsome—a purebred movie star.

"I think so," Yakko said, then shrugged and handed the file to Wakko so that he and Dot didn't have to crane their necks to see it. "Humans all look the same to me."

"Does this mean that Yakko is gay?" Wakko asked, and was smacked by both of his siblings in perfect synchronization. "Ow!" he complained, rubbing his head. "What?"

"No," Yakko answered, with exactly as much patience as the time Wakko asked if the goldfinch in _The Goldfinch_ was going to be portrayed by Finn Wolfhard. "This does not mean I'm gay."

"But I thought...?"

Yakko didn’t say anything, just rolled his eyes and walked away, leaving the file with them. They flipped through it until they got bored.

“What’s going to happen now?” Wakko asked. Dot shrugged; she'd been wondering the exact same thing.


	2. Chapter 2

These Hollywood parties were always dull. Maybe it would be more fun if other children were present, but there hardly ever were. Most parents didn’t like their children to be in such close proximity to drugs and alcohol, but the Warners didn’t have parents—just caretakers like Scratchy and Hello Nurse, whose disinterest in children was matched only by their total inability to properly care for them.

At any rate, Yakko didn’t drink, nor did he much enjoy cocaine (although, on one memorable occasion, Wakko somehow mistook cocaine for food and Yakko and Dot had had to force him to throw up, so that was funny, at least), and the adults found them boisterous and wearisome, which Yakko didn’t one-hundred-percent _not_ sympathize with, even if the end result was that he and Wakko and Dot were usually stuck alone in a corner or under a table with only each other for company.

So whenever Dr. Scratchansniff or Mr. Plotz or whoever told them they’d be attending another one of these, he was never terribly excited. They’d met Michelle Pfeiffer and Arnold Schwarzenegger and even Donald Trump; they’d tipped over punch bowls and yelled “fire!” and watched from the side, stuffing popcorn in their mouths, as people fled the ballroom in a panic. They were running out of ways to amuse themselves.

Then they met _him._

He was insanely funny, which was weird because from the Warners' experience, grown-ups—especially human grown-ups—never were. But this one had a fantastic sense of humor. He’d starred in some award-winning something-or-other that probably had a title, who remembers. With his mesmerizing performance and sensitive eyes, he’d captured the hearts of audiences worldwide.

No one would have suspected him of being a pedophile. Even now, whenever Yakko sees his face on TV or in the papers (which isn’t often, because Scratchy and Hello Nurse are in the habit of hiding these things from him) he has a hard time believing it. Surely this person—this talented, well-known actor—was a kind, honest man…or at least, nowhere near as slimy as every other Hollywood elite.

And he was funny. Didn’t that count for anything? He could make you forget your problems and laugh, even if it was just for a moment. Yakko found himself laughing for considerably more than a moment, even when the two of them started meeting up outside of these parties, and without his siblings or caretakers—just the two of them.

It wasn’t his fault. He was desperate for someone that understood him, and to finally have found someone like that…it was so refreshing. An opportunity like that may not ever come again. How could he have let it go?

Warm and heavy, intensely painful. Then, eventually, less so. Then he didn’t say anything and then things were okay again, and they went on like that for a good long while before they got caught.

Now Scratchy is telling him he can't act in cartoons anymore. 

"But why?" He was deeply upset. Acting in cartoons was the only thing that felt semi-normal. He was _made_ to act, and now they were going to take that away from him? On top of everything else? 

"You have been through a very serious trauma," Scratchy said in the I'm-sorry-but-this-is-for-your-own-good tone Yakko was used to hearing even before all of this happened. "You need to rest."

"Um, sorry, Doc," Yakko said, folding his arms. "But I think you've got your facts mixed up. Toons don't need 'rest.' The worst thing you could do to me is keep me from acting."

"I'm sorry, Yakko," the doctor said. "But the higher-ups have made themselves quite clear. You're taking some time off work and that's final."

 _This isn't fair,_ Yakko felt like screaming. But he just scowled. "What about those two?"

"They'll be taking some time off, as well."

"You're gonna punish them just because of me? They didn't do anything to deserve this."

"Nobody's being punished, Yakko," Scratchy said sternly. "Now, I don't want to hear any more complaining. You'll like having some time to yourselves. You'll see."


	3. Chapter 3

Yakko sleeps a lot these days. Ever since the indictment, and especially since they’ve been out of work, he can reliably be found atop just about any surface—this time the stove, the pots and pans that had previously been stacked atop it having been relocated to the sink—at any time of the day or night, a pillow under his head and a blanket around him, dead to the world.

Based strictly on appearances, one can reasonably assume he’s having nice dreams, but Wakko isn’t as dumb as everyone thinks he is, and he knows that isn’t true.

He knows this because the three of them—himself, Yakko, and Dot—have always slept in the same room and often in the same bed, and his brother used to sleep in a variety of positions: on his back, his head upside-down over the edge of the mattress, mouth open and big cartoon Zs speech-bubbling near the ceiling, or on his face, mumbling the names of the many actresses whom he had crushes on (often, but not always, Michelle Pfeiffer), or even standing, his forehead against the blackboard, dozing off from boredom, his hand still gripping the chalk against the smooth, dark surface.

But now he only sleeps in one position: curled up in a ball, his fists curled loosely near his mouth, back pressed against the wall so as to prevent anyone from sneaking up behind him, and always in weird places because if anyone comes looking for him, the last place they'd think to check would be the stove, or the bathtub, or the closet, or the mine cart, or the toybox, or any of the other places he sleeps in now.

Wakko knows that’s all this is: a flimsy defense mechanism. Because if Yakko really is doing this just to be funny—just because he’s so dedicated to his craft that he’s willing to practice in his sleep—he would’ve first thought of it a long time ago. Not to mention that there’s no audience in the tower (well, not right now, anyway) so there’s no one to even amuse, other than themselves, and no one, not even Yakko, who pretends to be but isn’t, is amused by this behavior.

Wakko goes into the living room. There’s a half-finished game of checkers on the coffee table. He’d had to abandon it weeks ago, the day it all went down. He’d been about to jump three kings in a row and had even been holding the piece triumphantly above his head when Doctor Scratchansniff burst through the door with a look of alarm and said they all needed to go to the police station right away.

Wakko had stared at him. There was nothing so alarming about the expression he wore, since he wore it all the time (as did everyone who had to look after the Warners), but something about his demeanor, along with the fact that they’d never had to go to the police station before (it was outside the studio and therefore extremely off-limits) made him wonder what could be going on. He was annoyed at having to leave his game (he'd been about to win!) and complained all the way out the door, but his curiosity only increased when Scratchy failed to reprimand him.

It was also around that time that he began to wonder where Yakko was.

Within a few hours, he’d had his answer. Not that he’d understood it at first. Doctor Scratchansniff had to sit him and Dot down, one at a time, and explain.

In the period that followed, when Yakko stopped talking for so long they were all afraid he’d stay like that permanently, Wakko couldn’t help but wonder what it was like, to be raped. He could never think about it for very long before he had to stop, ashamed and guilty and hopelessly confused.

He picks up his piece and makes the triple-jump, capturing six of Other Wakko’s pieces. Then he puts the board away. Scratchy has been badgering them about keeping the place clean.

A hand covers his mouth from behind. He freezes and waits. Dot whispers in his ear, “it’s over.”

He shoves her hand away, turning to scowl at her. “The trial?”

“Duh.”

“How do you know?”

She shows him a cell phone. They're not allowed to have cell phones. “Where’d you get that?” he asks.

“Do you want to know the verdict or not?”

Wakko looks over his shoulder. Through the kitchen doorway, he can see Yakko, still asleep. If they keep their voices down, he’ll never know.

“We can’t tell him,” Dot says, as if reading his mind.

“I know. Now tell me.”

Dot shrugs and, to his surprise, drops the device, headphones and all, into his hands. “What did you expect?” she asks as she walks away.

Wakko holds the device to his chest, his heart sinking. There’s only one thing that could mean. 


	4. Chapter 4

The interior of the tower, much like the Warners themselves, followed cartoon logic. As such, the rooms tended to move around, disappear, and reappear at random. Even the floors were ever-metamorphosing; sometimes there were many, sometimes only one.

Today, there were two. On the upper story, Yakko had his own room. It smelled like perfume.

Wakko picked up a crystal bottle that was sitting on the dresser. The label attached to it said, “drink me.”

The cork was missing. Wakko scanned the room but couldn't see it anywhere.

Curious, he sniffed at it. He'd never tried liquor before; cartoons often had adverse reactions to it. Plus, he was only eleven (unless you counted in human years, in which case he was eighty-one), plus he did have some standards, contrary to popular belief.

He put it back down. Yakko was flat on his back on the carpet, eyes closed, unconscious. His mouth was agape and a thin trickle of drool had dried on his chin.

If anyone saw him like this, he was going to be in big trouble—worse than the time they set Plotz's office on fire as a joke and the flames spread until the entire building was rubble.

Which was bad, because even as he stood there, Dr. Scratchansniff was calling them downstairs for breakfast.

Wakko knelt by Yakko's side and shook him, gently at first, then with greater urgency. Yakko's eyes remained closed, and his head lolled to one side. He wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

Wakko went through every item in his hat that he thought might help: a five-piece drum set, an electric guitar with a comically large amplifier, a civil war cannon. No dice.

Meanwhile, Scratchy's tone was becoming more and more impatient. At any moment, he would come upstairs looking for them.

What to do? Tell the truth? Hey, Scratchy, Yakko got into the strong stuff...again. Better ship him off to cartoon rehab, which everyone knows no toon ever comes back from—or, if they do, their careers certainly don't. By the way, the Alice in Wonderland set might be missing a prop.

What’s that? Has he talked yet? Not since the verdict. Back to square one, am I right?

Ha, ha.

The tower, thank God, had seen fit to provide Yakko’s room with a closet. Wakko opened it, dragged his brother inside, and slammed the door just as Scratchy appeared.

“Come along,” he said sternly, “I have been calling you. Where is Yakko?”

“I don’t know,” Wakko said simply, then suffered a heart attack when he realized that he’d forgotten to hide the bottle. It was pretty much right by Scratchy’s elbow and if he just kind of looked to his right he would see it.

“You don’t know?” Scratchy frowned and stepped out into the hallway. “Yakko?” he called, his voice fading with his footsteps. “Yakko! I am not playing around, young man.”

Wakko dived for the bottle, fumbled wildly, almost dropped it, and shoved it into the pillowcase just as Scratchy reappeared.

“What’s that smell?”

“What smell?”

“I am smelling something in here.” Scratchy scanned the room, frowning. Sitting on the bed with his arms around the pillow, Wakko smiled as innocently as he could.

“I don’t smell anything.”

“No?” Scratchy put his hands on his hips, not buying it. After years of caring for the Warners, he knew when something was amiss. 

Wakko held out for another minute, then looked at the closet. Scratchy followed his gaze. Realization, then annoyance registered on his face. He crossed the room and opened the door.

Yakko lay inside, in a highly comical position that could be attributed to nothing other than an alcohol-induced coma.

Scratchy sighed. Then he seized Yakko by the shoulders and shook him roughly, no holds barred.

“I tried that already,” Wakko said helpfully, but Scratchy just went on shaking until Yakko groaned pathetically.

“Yakko, wake up,” the doctor said. “It is time for breakfast.”

“Mmmgh.”

Scratchy dropped him unceremoniously onto the floor. He turned on Wakko, looking angrier than Wakko has ever seen him.

“Let me see it.”

Wakko didn’t move.

“I have to know what it was,” Scratchy said impatiently. Wakko retrieved the bottle from where he’d stashed it. Scratchy took it and pointed it at him.

“You are in trouble too,” he said. “You should know better than to cover for him. Do you want him to get better? Hmm? Do you?”

Wakko nodded wordlessly.

“Then you must tell me when something is wrong. How am I to help if I do not know what is going on?”

He looked at the label. “Seriously?” he grumbled. Then he put the bottle down on the nightstand and knelt by Yakko.

“Wake up. I am not going to ask again.”

“Mmmmichellepfeifferrrrr...”

Scratchy gripped the back of Yakko’s neck and hoisted him to his feet. Wakko jumped up in alarm, afraid that his brother was being hurt, but Yakko didn’t seem to register what was going on at all. Scratchy dragged him to the bathroom and pushed him into the bathtub, where he slumped over, barely conscious. As Wakko watched, anxious, from the doorway, Scratchy turned the tap on so that freezing water showered down on Yakko’s head.

Yakko jolted, his eyes opening wide. “Jesus!” he gasped. If one didn’t count his half-asleep mumbles from earlier, it was the first word he’d spoken aloud in weeks.

He tried to shield himself, but Scratchy was now using the hose to spray every inch of him. He hadn’t taken his clothes off; in no time at all Yakko’s iconic baggy brown slacks were soaked through.

“Hey!” Yakko struggled in vain to protect himself, using his hands to shield his face, but that did little other than ensure that his gloves were soaked through, as well. His voice rose to a shout. _“Are you crazy?”_

Finally, Scratchy shut off the tap. “Are _you?”_ he yelled back. “What did I tell you would happen if you did this again? What did I tell you?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Yakko mopped his face (ineffectually, since every inch of him was wet) and glared. “For Christ’s sake, can you take it down a notch? What’s your problem?”

“What’s _my_ problem?” Scratchy’s face turned red, and his knuckles on the hose turned white. “You were drinking again!”

“No, I wasn’t!”

“Yes, you were! Don’t lie to me.”

“I wasn’t!”

“Yakko.” Scratchy aimed the hose at him again. Yakko flinched. 

“Don’t!”

“You are in big trouble. Very, very big trouble.”

“Oh, get off my case! What kind of psychiatrist are you?” He stood up, gesturing to himself with both arms. “Look at me! I'm like Kate Winslet in fucking _Titantic!”_

His first joke in weeks. Wakko was still trying to decide if it was funny or not when the steam began to pour out of Scratchy’s ears, accompanied by a high-pitched whistling sound.

“Did you just curse at me?”

“Curse at you?" Yakko cried. "I’m going to _sue_ you! Look what you did! This is child abuse!”

_“Ich habe dein selbstmitleid satt!”_

_“Lass mich in ruhe, du verrückter alter mann!”_

They were screaming in German. Wakko understood none of it, other than that they were both enraged. When he happened to glance at the tile floor, he observed a puddle deep enough to sail a toy boat in. 

He left the bathroom and wandered downstairs, hoping breakfast was already on the table. The acrid smell of something burning didn't fill him with very much hope.


	5. Chapter 5

As Wakko sat eating his breakfast, he assumed that his brother and his surrogate father would go on yelling at each other for a good long time. To his surprise, they both appeared in the kitchen less than a minute later.

Yakko dropped himself into the seat beside Dot, who pretended not to notice the look of irritation on his face or the fact that he was dripping wet. After a moment, she crinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”

It was Yakko. He reeked of booze. No one said anything, and as the awkward silence stretched on, Dot decided not to press the matter further. Instead she asked very politely for the orange juice. Yakko, who was nearest to it, handed it to her without saying anything.

Scratchy asked Wakko to join him upstairs.

“What?” Wakko blinked, surprised. “Why me?” Had Scratchy really been serious that he was in trouble? As much trouble as Yakko?

“Can’t the kid eat his breakfast first?” Yakko asked with a scowl. Dot kept her eyes on her plate, her posture as prim and perfect as if nothing whatsoever was going on. Scratchy gave the eldest Warner a no-nonsense look.

“He can eat later,” he said. “I must discuss something with him. Come along, Wakko.”

Wakko climbed down from his chair and allowed Scratchy to lead him towards the stairs. Before they went up, Scratchy turned around. “I do not want to see one thing on your plate when I return,” he ordered Yakko. “Eat. And that goes for you too, Dot.”

“I am,” Dot said, pouting, but Scratchy didn’t answer her. Wakko felt bad for her; she was trying so hard to be good, and the doctor hadn’t even noticed. Lately her behavior has been nothing short of perfect, but all that meant was that she got less attention than anyone else.

The troubled kids, like Yakko—those were the ones the grown-ups paid attention to.

Before he could pity her for too long, Wakko found himself sitting on the tower’s therapy couch. He thought it was lucky the tower always decided to give them a couch whenever Scratchy decided they needed one.

“How are you, Wakko?” the doctor asked.

Wakko shrugged. Then, after some thought, he said, “I’m okay.”

“Is there anything on your mind?”

“I thought you guys were fighting.”

The doctor sighed. “Your brother is being difficult right now. It is to be expected. But while he is worked up, he does not wish to talk to me. And you have just been through a great deal of excitement, ja?”

“Ja. I mean, yes. Well, only a little.” Wakko fidgeted. “It’s fine.”

“How did it feel to see your brother like that?”

Scratchy always asked questions that Wakko had no idea how to answer. He knew this was real life, not one of their cartoons, and he was expected to give a serious answer. He shrugged.

Scratchy waited, but Wakko did not elaborate.

“Okay,” Scratchy said. “Let’s take it slowly. Tell me exactly what happened, just as you remember it.”

“Starting from when?”

“Starting from when you entered the room.”

Wakko sank down slightly on the couch. “I don’t know.” He paused. “I knew he wasn’t just sleeping. It smelled really a lot in there.” He thought. “At least we never sleep in the same room anymore. I hate that smell.”

“Go on.”

Wakko really didn’t feel like talking. He tried saying what he thought the doctor wanted to hear. “I’m sorry I put him in the closet. I didn’t want him to get in trouble.” He started to fidget. “Dot—” he reddened— “I mean, someone said that if Yakko keeps getting in trouble they’ll send him into retirement. That means he’ll get dipped. Or we’ll end up in Wasteland or something.”

Scratchy was silent for several long moments and Wakko began to sweat, cursing himself for bringing Dot’s name up. “Do you really think that?” the doctor asked gently. “That you’ll be retired?”

“Mr. Plotz already doesn’t like us. The studio locked us up for sixty years for being just as we are now. Too zany,” he clarified. “And now we can’t even do the one thing we were made for. We’re not making money, so we’re useless.”

“I suppose it’s a very reasonable concern,” Scratchy mumbled, scribbling something into his notes. Wakko suffered his second heart attack of the day, because some part of him, though he hadn’t realized it until now, had fully believed that Scratchy would tell him he was being ridiculous, that of course no one was going to get rid of them, and that Dot was just trying to scare him. _A reasonable concern_. The words echoed in Wakko’s head. A reasonable concern! A reasonable concern?

“But they won’t really,” he said anxiously, “will they?”

Scratchy scratched his chin. “Your brother is at the beginning of a long journey towards recovery,” he began. “I know that you kidses have been treated unjustly in the past. Recent events may have exacerbated the feelings of abandonment and fear I know the three of you share.”

Wakko waited for him to get to the point.

“I want you to focus on the outcome that you and I would prefer,” Scratchy said. “There is no telling what the future will bring. But I believe your brother can improve his mental condition if he decides to.”

“What does that mean?” Wakko asked, feeling like he was doing a poor job of following along. Dammit, if he didn’t learn whatever Scratchy was saying, then Yakko would never get fixed. “‘If he decides to?’”

“His condition is very precarious.” Scratchy paused. “Let me put it this way.” He set his clipboard down, pressed his fingertips together, and rested his chin on them. Wakko hung onto his every word.

“Yakko is in a state of mind where he believes he is alone and that no one can help him. You said it best when you said—and forgive me, but it’s true—that Mr. Plotz doesn’t like you.”

Wakko appreciated the doctor’s candor.

“So then, who is left to save him? Do you think you could do it?”

“I want to,” Wakko said. “Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” He jumped to his feet on the couch so that he was staring down at the doctor with his fists clenched. “I’ll do whatever it takes!”

“Please sit.”

Wakko sat. The doctor continued.

“My point is that no single one of us—you, me, and Dot—however well intentioned, can help your brother on our own. It is something we can only do together. But even with all our efforts combined, it will come to no good unless we have Yakko’s effort, too.”

“Okay,” Wakko said, feeling like he was starting to catch on.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Is Yakko aware that you and Dot have discussed the prospect of being retired?”

“No.”

“I would prefer if you didn’t mention it to him.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to worry him needlessly.”

“But he already knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That we might get retired.”

The doctor frowned. “I thought you didn’t mention it to him.”

“We didn’t.”

“Then how can he know?”

Wakko shrugged. “Cause he’s Yakko,” he said.


	6. Chapter 6

Yakko pushed his food around without eating it. Dot took the plate away from him, then emptied it into the toybox. If he didn’t want to eat, why should he? Anyway, considering how hungover he was, he would probably just throw it right back up. There was no point.

She put their clean plates in the sink, then sat back down. Yakko hadn’t moved, and he didn’t look up at her. “I’m telling,” he said.

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh, yes I am. It’s about time someone other than me got in trouble around here.” He was smiling. It was his old, smarmy smile, the one Dot knew for a fact he only smiled around her these days. With Scratchy, he was always on the defensive, and around Wakko, he always felt guilty. But for Dot—and only for Dot—he smiled.

She couldn’t tell if he was faking it or if her attempts to cheer him up were actually working.

All day long, she worked and worked to make him happy. She hid his food when he didn’t want to eat, did his chores when he was nowhere to be found, and brought him books and toys when he couldn’t summon the willpower to get out of bed. She did his homework and helped Wakko with his. Yakko got drunk and broke things, and Dot hid the evidence and covered for him.

She was better at covering for him than Wakko. Wakko, she felt, wasn’t handling things well at all. He was obviously confused by the finer details of the whole situation, despite how hard she and Scratchy (separately, of course) had tried to explain it to him. Even Hello Nurse tried to explain it to him, but he’d gotten distracted by her chest. (Boys!)

He was just too stupid. The idea that someone had hurt his brother in a way that could never be repaired simply didn’t compute. And the fact that that person wasn’t even being held accountable? Forget it.

Today was a perfect example. He should’ve called her the instant he saw Yakko unconscious. But, of course, because his brain was the size of a marble, he’d tried to handle things himself. Now Yakko was sitting at the kitchen table looking like he’d just crawled out of the Pacific. And he kept sneezing.

Dot slipped away, then came back with a towel. She started to dry him with it. He pushed her away.

“Stop.”

“You’re going to get sick.” She ducked under his arms and starting toweling his face. He laughed and tried to escape.

“Quit it!”

“Here.” She handed it to him and stepped back. “Why don’t you get changed?”

“Gee, I never thought of that.”

“Well, you’re just sitting there.”

“I will in a minute.” He dried behind his ears and put the towel down. Then he rested his head on the table and closed his eyes. “I’m still half-asleep.”

She lingered, not certain whether he wanted to be left alone or not. “What time did you go to bed?”

“I dunno. Maybe seven?”

It was nine. That meant he’d barely slept. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised.

She cleared the syrup and juice off of the table, then remembered that Wakko hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. Oh, well—he could have cereal or something. If he really complained, Scratchy could always make more pancakes. Dot would give him one of her signature too-cute-to-resist puppy faces—although she’d been using them so often lately she’d started to worry they were losing their potency.

She put the wet towel in the laundry basket and cleared away the used silverware and glasses. By the time she was finished cleaning, Yakko still hadn’t moved. She edged up to him, wondering if he’d fallen asleep.

His face was slack, his eyes closed, and he was drooling. Tiny cartoon Zs spilled out of his mouth.

She glanced at the stairs. Wakko and Scratchy were still doing their session. With no one to catch her, now was a good time to check her phone. Maybe some indie blogger had posted a new article she could add to her growing collection.

GOLDEN ACQUITTED

had been the headline of doom. It’d smacked her in the face one morning, the worst joke the world had ever told. One could tell that the news organization was on Yakko’s side because of the way they referred to him: a fourteen-year-old. Not a ‘toon.’ Not a ‘Warner Brothers property.’ Not a ‘trademarked character.’

Someone who wasn’t in the know might have read the article and never even realized he wasn’t human.

Then there were articles like

GOLDEN TO PRESS CHARGES

which referred to Yakko as though he were nothing more than a drawing on a piece of paper. Most of what it said wasn’t even true.

THE GOLDEN EXAMPLE: JUSTICE DELAYED IS JUSTICE DENIED

was a highly controversial piece that outright stated that the U.S. legal system was deeply flawed if it didn’t consider cartoon characters to be human. The author portrayed Golden as a disgusting waste of space and strongly hinted that the world would be better off without him, which Dot greatly appreciated. She’d showed Yakko, hoping he would appreciate it too (this was several weeks after the verdict), but his expression had gone all funny, sort of blank, but also angry and afraid at the same time, and she’d been so alarmed that she’d never shown him another article since.

Not even

THE RAPE OF YAKKO WARNER

even though every moral fiber in her being screamed that he needed to know that something titled

THE RAPE OF YAKKO WARNER

had been written and published and existed, out there, in the world, somewhere, perhaps even in multiple places.

If

THE GOLDEN EXAPMLE: JUSTICE DELAYED IS JUSTICE DENIED

was controversial, then

THE RAPE OF YAKKO WARNER

was the reason why the news people were practically breaking their doors and windows down trying to get a quote from Yakko, who was expressly forbidden to speak to them. Not that he would have wanted to even if he could have.

Dot hated the news people. Well, not all of them. Some of them—the ones who treated Yakko like a real person and not a piece of property—were okay. She stayed up late at night (not as late as Yakko, but still) scrolling through her phone, reading and re-reading their work. She wished she could take their words and scream them to the whole world—or, even better, say them on TV. She wanted to make people listen. She wanted to make them understand.

“Justice delayed is justice denied,” she’d whispered out loud to herself, the covers over her head, feeling the words resonate with her. She wished Yakko had reacted to that article the way she’d expected—amused by the thinly-veiled insults directed at Golden and the U.S. legal system, agreeing with the overall message while pointing out scarcely noticeable syntax errors—instead of looking like he’d been punched in the stomach. The article wasn’t even that bad! She’d been almost certain there was nothing triggering in it, especially compared to what else was out there. Otherwise she never would have shown it to him.

Why had he been so upset? They were taking his side!

Thinking about it, she felt worse and worse. She shook her head. Her brother was asleep at the table. Sooner or later, he would have to get up.

An idea struck her. She dragged one of the kitchen chairs over to the counter, then stood on it. She’d never made coffee by herself before, but how hard could it be?

She took the glass pot and climbed down from the chair. Then she dragged the chair over to the sink and stood on it. She filled the pot with water, then got down from the chair, pushed the chair to the coffee machine, and stood on the chair again. She filled the coffee machine with water.

Where was the coffee? She climbed onto the counter, then began rifling through the cabinets. She knew that it was in a red container, but she didn’t drink coffee, only Scratchy and Yakko did, so she wasn’t sure where it was.

Finally, she spotted it. It was well out of reach. She stood on tiptoes and reached as high as possible—higher…just a little bit higher…

Someone grabbed her, and she gasped, but before she could move, she felt herself swept off her feet and lowered safely to the floor. She whirled around to see Yakko.

“What are you doing?” He put his hands on his hips. It was nothing short of amazing. A second ago he’d been passed out cold, and now he was in full-on dad mode.

“I was just getting the coffee,” she said, bewildered.

“You almost fell.”

“I did not.”

“You know you’re not allowed to stand on the counter.”

“I wasn’t!”

“I _saw_ you. What were you even doing?” He shut the cabinets, then glanced at the coffee machine. He blinked, surprised. “Were you making coffee?”

“So what if I was?”

He nudged her aside and reached over, unplugging it. “You filled it up too much.”

She watched him carry it to the sink. “What are you doing?”

“Emptying some of it.” He poured more than half of the water down the drain. “You really don’t know how to make coffee,” he said.

She grew annoyed. “Yes, I do.”

“Next time, ask.”

“I don’t need help,” she lied. “Now shut up and get dressed already.”

He put the machine down and gave her an odd look. She thought he was going to say something sarcastic, but instead he ruffled her hair affectionately. “Silly,” he said.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, everyone! Things have been difficult for me lately. It was nice to finally have time to work on this chapter. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“What did you do?”

Yakko scowled. “What did _I_ do?”

“To make them mad at you.”

“Nothing.”

Dot grew quiet. To her left, Wakko pretended to be engrossed in one of Yakko’s toy puzzles. The three of them sat in an orderly row, like flowers on a windowsill, on Yakko’s bed.

On the floor was an open suitcase. It was empty apart from the clothes that Doctor Scratchansniff had already folded and packed, reassuring Yakko all the while that a little bit of time away wouldn’t be as bad as he thought.

 _Time away:_ that was how he’d phrased it. Dot guessed he was trying to make it sound like a vacation or something. She wondered just how dumb he thought they were.

It was the first time in a while that they weren’t sure what to do. Obviously, they couldn’t let Yakko be taken away. But where else could they go? They were locked into a contract. No one else would hire them. Without an acting gig, they would become purposeless, fade away. The world would forget them, and they would cease to exist.

It was almost preferable. They had never been apart from each other—never. They had come into this world together, and since that day—almost a century ago!—the longest they had been separated was the length of an upbeat, joke-filled, sometimes-but-not-always educational song.

But whatever looney bin has been salivating over the idea of getting their hands on Yakko to the point that it was nothing short of remarkable that not even one of their dozens of letters had arrived soaking wet had explicitly stated that they were not interested in the younger two Warners. The sick one was the only one they would take. It was the only one they cared about.

He could pretend to be all he wanted, but even Doctor Scratchansniff was not a fan of this development. It’d been out of his hands, of course. He seemed to conclude that the best course of action was to pretend that everything was going to be just fine when it obviously wasn’t.

In an extreme lapse of judgement, he’d even tried to appeal to Yakko’s well-documented love of learning by describing the types of doctors he would have access to, and the goals of their research, and how Yakko would be an invaluable contribution to a larger body of knowledge—a greater good.

Yakko had stared at him in disbelief. For a rare moment, he couldn’t seem to think of a single thing to say.

Research! Dot wasn’t a big reader, not like her brother, but she surprised herself with what she was capable of when their lives as they knew them were on the line. Research—oh, yes, they would do research on Yakko, but not with the goal of making him feel better. Sure, they might inject him with something here or spike his water with something else there, but that wasn’t the point. They wanted to figure out why and how humans were capable of fucking cartoon characters.

Because, by all accounts, it should not have been feasible. There are only a few cases in recorded history in which it has occurred, but apparently it’s been a while, and, as many a letter written by many a doctor, scientist, or anthropologist had stated, science has never been this advanced. Never before has humanity had access to the sorts of tools that existed now.

Drooling! They were absolutely _drooling_ all over their lab coats and clipboards and shiny fountain pens for the _prospect_ of a _chance_ to use even _half_ of those tools on Yakko.

Of course, Mr. Golden had not received a similar offer.

Dot jumped up. “Come on. Now’s as good a time as any.”

Yakko said, “I’m going.”

Dot stared at him. “What?”

Yakko flopped backwards on the bed and closed his eyes, folding his hands over his stomach. “I don’t care. They can do what they want with me. I don’t feel like running.”

Dot stared at him.

“They’ll just catch us,” Yakko went on. “They always do. What’s the point?” Then, insistently, “can you really foresee an outcome where we all run away and live happily ever after?”

“I’d rather die than let them take you.”

Silence. Wakko, meanwhile, hadn’t glanced up from the toy for even a moment. “This thing is confusing,” he complained.

“You have to match the colors,” Yakko advised him.

“I’m trying. Why is it so hard?”

Dot took the toy out of his hand and threw it at the wall. It broke.

“You guys suck,” she shouted. “Why do I ever expect anything from boys? Do you even know what’s going on?” She got so close to Wakko’s face that their noses almost touched, and pointed to Yakko furiously. “They’re going to strap him to a table and yank his brains out of his nose!”

Wakko blinked at her, startled. Then he turned to Yakko. “Really?”

Yakko yawned. “I dunno. Maybe.”

Wakko looked horror-stricken. Dot put her head in her hands and stifled a groan of frustration.

Yakko sat up, rested his chin in his hands, and looked at the suitcase. “Did the tower give us that?” Then, thoughtfully, he said, “it must be sad that we’re leaving. It’s not like I have any belongings to pack. Other than props, I mean.” He stood up and crossed the room to pick up the broken toy. “If those scientists were really any good, they’d think up an excuse to do their little experiments on this tower, not on me. I’m not half as interesting as they think I am. They’ll get bored of me in a week, and then they’ll send me home.”

Dot looked at him. She couldn’t tell if he was serious. “Really?”

“Sure.” He handed her the broken toy. “I mean, what do they think they’re going to find out?”

No one present had anything remotely resembling an answer. Yakko flopped back down on the bed. Dot looked at the toy in her hands, then dropped it into the suitcase. She climbed onto the bed and flopped down on top of Yakko. Wakko got up and flopped down on top of them, forming a three-person pile.

“One week,” Dot said. “And then you’ll come back. You promise?”

“Cross my heart,” came Yakko’s muffled voice.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Me neither,” Wakko said. “I don’t want them to scoop out your brains, Yakko.”

“Me neither,” Dot said. “They’re his one redeeming quality.”

“Come on, guys,” Yakko said. “Just trust me on this. I really think there’s a good chance that these people can help me.”

There was a pause. Then they all started laughing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter includes graphic depictions of rape.

It took ten days to process him into the facility.

For ten days, he sat in a white room with a table, a chair, and a bed—a room like a prison cell, with no windows and one door that locked from the outside—doing nothing.

After just one hour, he was certain he’d gone mad.

After twelve hours, he’d forgotten his own name and two languages—luckily not English, but definitely at least two. He wished for a book—any book. Or one of his puzzles, or a TV, or something. He was so bored. No one even came to visit him. He didn’t need to eat; there was no need to bring him food or water, no need to treat him like a human being, because he wasn’t one.

After thirteen hours, he lost track of how much time had passed. There was no clock in the room, and he had nothing to draw tally marks with. He wondered what he’d gotten himself into. For someone so smart, he’d been an idiot to agree to this.

He started acting out comedy bits to an imaginary audience, pulling props out of his hammerspace and playing several characters at once. Without an audience, however, he quickly ran out of energy. He hadn’t acted in a while, so he was already rusty, and the boredom (and loneliness and desperation) certainly didn’t help.

It made it the slightest bit easier that there was a camera in the top corner of the room, which meant someone, somewhere, was watching him, but whoever that person was, they must not have been laughing.

After ten days, he hugged the first person he saw—a dark-skinned woman in a lab coat, holding a clipboard. She screamed like a banshee and stumbled backwards. He clung on for as long as he could, his face pressed into the soft pillow of her left breast. She smelled good, like perfume and copy paper.

A security guard pried him off. Yakko wrapped his arms and legs happily around the guard’s burly arm. “The name’s Warner,” he said. “I believe I have an appointment?” As the guard struggled to peel him off, he grinned manically and said, “y’know, you really oughta put some magazines or something in that waiting room. I’ve been stuck in there forever!”

The guard roared in anger, and Yakko suddenly found himself dangling upside-down by one leg. He giggled, like this was all a game, as he was carried down several hallways and up two flights of stairs, to a room with a table with leather restraints and a big machine with buttons, dials, and blinking lights.

“What’s that do?” he asked, marveling at the machine. He tried to cling to the guard, but suddenly ten lab coats swarmed him and pushed him back. They were touching him all over, peering into his eyes, his ears, his mouth, without even asking his permission. Didn’t they know what consent was?

His wrists were fastened into leather restraints. “I can’t feel my hands,” he complained, but they ignored him. He squirmed. Someone pushed his head back. He felt a leather strap being pulled across his forehead; with a noise of protest, he tried to pull away, but they squeezed his jawbone until it ached. He stopped moving. They tightened the strap.

“This machine will analyze your memories,” someone told him. “It may hurt a little. Just relax and take deep breaths.”

“Good-night, everybody,” said Yakko. If this had been one of their cartoons, he would’ve slipped a hand out of its restraint to give a big, smacking kiss to the audience. However, these restraints were obviously toon-proof, because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get free of them.

The doctors and scientists spoke in jargon he couldn’t understand. He told them he was never coming back here, and that he would give them a one-star review, and didn’t they know it was a fashion crime to wear white after Labor Day?

They acted like he didn’t exist. When, finally, someone approached him, it was only to hook him up to the big, strange machine, which, having been powered on, had started to hum.

He thought about yelling for help, but couldn’t think of a single person that would rescue him even if they could.

A dial was turned, a button pressed. Everything went dark, and he found himself sinking, like a punctured raft, into the furthest depths of his own mind—the place where he’d shoved every thought, memory, dream, and nightmare he didn’t want to deal with, because he didn’t know how. He tried to claw his way to the surface, back to the light; he heard voices shouting, more unintelligible jargon.

The darkness redoubled its grip. He sank faster, further. He screamed.

John put an arm around his shoulders. "Are you okay?"

Yakko nodded. “Just tired.”

He stirred his milkshake with a candy-striped straw. The whipped cream had long since melted, but he hadn’t even tasted it yet. In the taxi ride over, he’d given John the maraschino cherry, knowing they were his favorite. John had kissed his cheek, and Yakko had been, for a brief, rare moment, happy.

Now John laid a hand atop his head.

“Nice try, but your kind doesn’t need sleep.”

“Well, your kind invented the nuclear bomb. Which,” Yakko added, “they would have done a lot sooner if they didn’t need sleep.”

“Not if they were too busy dropping pianos on anyone who mildly inconvenienced them.”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

John took the milkshake out of Yakko’s hand and put it on the nightstand. Then he pulled Yakko into his lap and wrapped his arms around his waist. They were chest to chest, nose to nose; John's voice was a loving murmur. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Yakko playfully tried to wriggle free. “Nothing. Get off.”

“Is it about that assistant?” John refused to let him go. “I told you, she’s not going to talk. I paid her off, and anyway, even if she did, no one would believe her. Why would a star like me be interested in something like you?”

“Some _thing?”_ Yakko repeated, smiling suddenly. “Don’t ya mean some _one?”_

“Oh, c’mon, Yakko, you’re as clever as you are pretty. You know damn well toons aren’t people.”

“You make me sick,” Yakko said, grinning widely. John pulled him in and kissed his neck. Yakko suddenly went pale; his smile slackened, and he looked away. John bounced him up and down on his lap, like a toddler. He did that now and again. Yakko sort of liked it; it was cute and innocent—something a father would do with his child, affectionate without being sexual.

“Stop worrying,” John said.

“I’m not.” Yakko tried to escape, but John suddenly pushed him backwards, then climbed on top of him, pinning him down. He held both of his wrists in one hand, securely, like they were no obstacle at all. Yakko suddenly felt genuinely sick.

“Do we have to?” he asked, trying to keep the terror out of his voice. To his chagrin, the words came out sounding like a plea.

“Don’t you trust me?” John asked.

“Not as far as I can throw you.”

“Yakko.” John pressed their lips together. Yakko suddenly felt like crying; hating himself, he went still and let John do what he wanted, let his tongue rove the inside of his mouth like a hungry living thing. Deep breaths, just like he’d been taught. He counted the seconds until it was over.

Twenty-three. John’s age divided by two minus one. What were the odds?

“Do you trust me?” John whispered in his ear.

“Yes,” Yakko managed. John fumbled with his belt. Yakko squirmed helplessly. “Please,” he begged. “I don’t feel like it today.”

“Come on. It’ll make you feel better.”

Yakko begged and begged. John ignored him and took both of their clothes off. Then he flipped Yakko over and positioned himself behind him. Yakko pressed his face into the sheets of the hotel bed, taking deep breaths to calm himself.

He felt himself being penetrated.

A wave of apathy washed over him.

He didn’t feel like crying anymore. In fact, he felt strangely numb—flat, with as much depth, as much awareness, as much sensation as a piece of paper. He also felt a peculiar sense of déjà vu, as if he’d lived this moment not once or twice but many, many times before.

John pulled out, slowly, then pushed back in. Yakko squeezed his eyes shut and held completely still.

Wait. Where was the facility? The doctors, the scientists—the machine with the buttons and dials? He’d been there mere moments ago, and now—

He gasped and opened his eyes. He was back on the table; his arms and legs were still securely restrained, and doctors and scientists buzzed like flies all around him. He tried to turn his head to get a better look at his surroundings, to reassure himself that he was no longer in that hotel room, but safe and sound (relatively, that is) in the present day.

His head didn’t move. He remembered it’d been strapped down. He screamed again, panicking.

He was back in the hotel room. A drop of sweat rolled down his back. John pounded into him with a steady rhythm. Yakko whimpered in pain.

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

“Do you like it?” John murmured, pressing his lips to Yakko's shoulder. Yakko couldn’t answer because he couldn’t breathe. His body jerked with each partial inhale. He still felt numb, but this time, it wasn’t a flat, vacant kind of numb, but a painful kind, like the result of someone scraping heartlessly away at the inside of his chest with a knife. Even the dull, distant pleasure he’d begun to feel was far away, as if it was actually happening to someone else and he just knew about it for some reason.

His muscles hurt; he knew they would be sore tomorrow, and that the pain in his stomach would reduce him to tears, and that no amount of cartoon DNA would help. 

Screaming wasn't an option. Neither was begging for mercy. He wished he was someone else, anyone else. He wished he’d never agreed to this, not any of it.

He came around, for the second time, in the facility. This time, there were tears rolling down his face. He tried to scream, but his lungs betrayed him, and no sound came out.

“Stop,” he gasped, his chest heaving, “please—”

But they didn't listen.


	9. Chapter 9

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

Yakko turned around. Wakko was staring up at him curiously, his tongue poking out of his mouth.

“Shh,” Yakko said. It was the middle of the night. If anyone found out they were awake, they would be in big trouble.

“Go back to sleep,” he said tersely, giving Wakko a shove. Wakko stubbornly remained right where he was.

“Where are you going?”

“Magnum P.I.’s house. Go back upstairs.”

“You _do_ have a girlfriend,” Wakko said in a voice of awe. He had never looked at his older brother with such admiration before. “What’s her name?”

“I do _not_ have a girlfriend. I’m just getting some air, I’ll be back in a second. Now go to sleep—please,” he added desperately. He didn’t know what John would do if he was late for the third night in a row.

Wakko just stood there, his head tilted to one side as if it were just slightly too heavy for his tiny shoulders. _Dammit_ , Yakko thought. It was impossible to stay mad at him. The kid was just so cute.

“Can I meet her?” Wakko asked. “Is she pretty?”

“Very pretty,” Yakko sighed, giving up, because there was no reasoning with his little brother, at least not right now. “Please go to sleep.”

“I want to come.”

“Next time.” Yakko seized his brother’s shoulders, turned him around, and pushed him firmly until he was forced to take several reluctant steps forward. “And only if you don’t tell anyone I went out tonight.”

“Really? I can meet her? When?”

“Shh!” Yakko gestured impatiently. Wakko climbed partway up the stairs, then stopped, resting his hand on the banister. Yakko felt his eyes on him as he stepped out the door.

John was waiting in his car. Yakko slipped into the passenger’s seat, glancing at the clock. He was late, but only by a minute or two—would John still be mad?

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I had to—”

He stopped. He’d been about to say, _had to shake the sibs,_ but it suddenly occurred to him that John might be irritated to know that Yakko had been caught sneaking out. He thought fast.

“—h-had to…had to hide my diary.”

John leaned over and kissed his brow. “I missed you.”

He sounded happy. Yakko felt the tension leave his body, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “I missed you, too.”

“Did you see what I got you?” John gestured to the backseat. As the car began to move, Yakko twisted around and saw, to his delight, a box wrapped in colorful paper, topped with a pink bow.

“You got me a present?” Smiling widely, he clambered into the backseat, picked it up, and shook it next to his ear. “What is it? Sounds expensive.”

“Open it.”

Yakko destroyed ribbon, box, and paper in two seconds flat. His smile faded. In his hands was a book—an anthology of 19th century English literature, to be precise.

“See the bookmark?” John asked.

Yakko saw it. He opened the book to the marked page and read, in a soft voice, “ _Heart of Darkness?_ ”

“You like it?” John glanced at him briefly, then looked back at the road. “I remember what you said about that one story you read in class—that it was really good but your bitch teacher yelled at you for reading it too fast. You said you liked it, and that you wanted to read it again, but you couldn’t find it…remember?”

“Thank you,” Yakko said, stunned. He tried to read the author’s biography, but the words were too blurry. A drop fell on the page, then another; he realized he was crying. He sniffled and wiped his eyes, hoping John hadn’t noticed; he tried to joke, “I can’t believe you remembered,” but halfway through the sentence, his voice broke.

When John glanced back at him again, he was sobbing into hands.

John smiled. “I knew you’d like it.”

“No one’s ever—” Yakko could barely speak through his sobs. “No one’s ever—given—m-me a book before.”

“What, never?”

Too overwhelmed to say another word, Yakko shook his head. He tried to dry his face, but the tears just kept coming.

John brought them to their usual hotel, tucked Yakko into his usual human disguise—a hoodie with THRASHER written on it and a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses—and paid the usual staff to keep their mouths shut.

Yakko walked with his hands in his pockets to hide his gloves. He’d wanted to bring the book with him, but John had insisted they leave it in the car. He’d joked that he didn’t want Yakko reading it just then, then added, more seriously, that if they brought it up to the room they might accidentally leave it there.

Yakko nodded and didn’t say anything. He didn’t mind; John had made him the happiest kid in the world tonight.

He wanted to return the favor.

The door had scarcely closed before he grabbed John’s collar, pulled him down, and kissed him. It was the first time Yakko had ever kissed him first. John took it in stride; he cupped his face, kissing him back while guiding him towards the bed. Then he picked him up and threw him down on it.

Yakko sat up. “I love you,” he said, meaning it sincerely. “I’ve never met anyone who listens like you do.”

John pushed him back down, then climbed on top of him. Straddling his waist, he took off his shirt and undid his pants. Yakko took advantage of his brief distraction to continue his thought.

“You’re so nice to me,” he said. “I wish I could live with you.”

“I don’t think your dad would like that.”

“Who? You mean Scratchy?” Yakko turned his head slightly as John peppered his throat with kisses. “He’s not my dad.”

John kissed his mouth, shutting him up. Yakko did everything as well as he could; he took off his clothes without having to be persuaded or forced, moved however John wanted him to, and didn’t resist, not even once. He sucked John’s dick (although he couldn’t maintain eye contact, the way John liked—not for very long, at least) and, when John gave him a light tap on the hip, he turned onto his tummy without hesitation.

“Good boy,” John murmured in his ear as he pushed in; Yakko gasped, gripping the sheets. “You like that?” John whispered, and Yakko nodded his head. It barely even hurt; he must be getting used to it.

John was excited for some reason; he hammered into his little _paramour_ with abandon, moaning so loudly that more than once Yakko was terrified that someone would hear. After coming the first time, he dragged Yakko—so abruptly that he cried out in fear—to the edge of the bed, flipped him over again, and, throwing his legs over his shoulders, pressed into him again.

Yakko moaned. John pressed their faces together and fucked him hard. In and out, in and out—his cock was massive; Yakko’s spine ached; his eyes flew open as he realized how badly he would be hurting tomorrow. It was almost enough to make him want to stop, but, remembering what John had done for him, he held his tongue and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Yakko said as John came again. He thought that was it, but John, after letting go of him for ten uninterrupted seconds, turned him back onto his stomach. Yakko was starting to worry (really? Again? Really?), but before he could say a word, John was inside him.

Again, he held his tongue.

After a minute, it started to become too much; he had to say something.

“John,” he managed, struggling as usual for breath, “John—”

“Shh.” John was pounding away at him. Another minute passed. Yakko whimpered, then cried out.

“John!” _Slow down, slow down,_ he’d been about to say, but John clamped a hand over his mouth. 

“Quiet, darling.”

Yakko tried to obey. John would be done any minute now; it was almost over.

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. He couldn’t take anymore. He tried to fight, to get away, but he didn’t think his boyfriend even noticed.

The hand on his face squeezed tighter, tighter. Yakko clawed at it uselessly. He had just begun to cry again when John groaned and collapsed on top of him, his semen filling him up a third time—warm, sticky, wet.

Yakko closed his eyes and waited, terrified, for it to start all over again, but John lay motionless atop him, breathing heavily. After a few minutes, Yakko realized he was asleep.

Damnit! When had he last slept? His current film—Yakko wasn’t sure quite what it was, something to do with a boat? Or an island? All he was sure of was that the female lead was smoking hot—was very demanding, and he’s done this once or twice before—fallen asleep without prior warning, a helpless puppy boy trapped beneath him.

It was part of the reason why he got so irritated whenever Yakko showed up late for a date. He had so little time to spare. He often did night shoots; Yakko now realized he’d probably just come back from one. So it was safe to say he hadn’t slept in at least thirty-six hours.

Yakko struggled and eventually managed to crawl out from beneath John’s heavy, sleeping, naked body. His tail got stuck; he tugged it free. Then he wiped himself off on the sheets as John snored. His muscles hurt only slightly, but they’d be a lot worse in the morning. He hoped he’d be able to walk.

He felt around for his pants. The room was dark, the curtains drawn, only one lamp on, near the door. Everyone else in the building was asleep.

Everyone else on the west coast was asleep.

Yakko got dressed. Then he stared at his boyfriend’s sleeping face, at his hair that was in need of combing, at his cheeks that were in need of a shave. He didn’t look like himself, the way he appeared in movies, on posters, in interviews, smiling, charming, laughing, joking—impeccably groomed, impeccably dressed, impeccably perfect.

He looked like a stranger.

Yakko cried for a while, but then his head began to hurt; he’d cried so much, he was dehydrated. He wanted to lay down and cry himself to sleep, but the thirst and the headache was so bad and there was still that awful taste in his mouth anyway so he stood and went to the bathroom and washed up and had a drink of water.

When he was done, he looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was ruffled, his eyes ringed with dark shadows. He tried to meet his own gaze, but shame flooded him and he had to look away.

He thought of John lying there on the mattress. The idea of joining him was repulsive. Instead, he sat down on the bathroom floor, wincing because everything hurt, and hugged his knees. He was cold; shivering, he wished he’d put his hoodie on, but he the last thing he felt like doing was going back to that room to look for it.

Instead he stared blankly at a crack in one of the tiles until John’s alarm went off at ten minutes to four.

Yakko heard him get up, shuffle around, get dressed. His footsteps approached the bathroom, where, still hazy with sleep, he ordered Yakko out so he could “take a piss.” When Yakko didn’t respond, John pulled him up—gently, but firmly—by the arm and propelled him out the door.

Yakko stood in the hallway, staring numbly at the wall, listening to John relieve himself. He heard the faucet turn on, then off. He realized John hadn't even bothered to close the door.

When John passed him on the way out, he pulled him close and kissed his forehead. "Good morning."

Yakko didn't say anything. He felt dizzy; the room began to tilt. John let him go and didn't seem to notice when he wobbled and put his arms out, looking for something to hold onto, to keep him from falling. 

When he fainted, John was still facing away. It was probably a few minutes before he even realized what had happened. 


	10. Chapter 10

“Did you get any sleep?” John asked, buttoning his shirt. He didn’t remember dozing off and had been startled to find, upon waking, Yakko curled up in the bathroom, dead-eyed and despondent. The poor kid had better be holding up. John didn’t think he would go to the authorities, but with situations like these, one couldn’t be too careful.

How could he persuade Yakko, if it came to that, to keep his mouth shut? Maybe a bigger bribe? The kid didn’t care much for money, as far as his knowledge went, and anyway something like that was likely to put him on guard; after all, the whole point was that he thought they were in love. He was naïve, not stupid. Maybe a trip to Disneyland, or a pony or something? Video games? An i-phone? What are kids into these days?

Gradually, he noticed, with irritation, a coffee stain on his shirt. How had that gotten there? He hadn’t had coffee in days; he was trying to cut down.

Thinking back, he realized he’d accidentally grabbed an unwashed shirt from his trailer instead of a clean one. He rubbed half-heartedly at the stain. It would never come out.

His fiancée had given him this shirt. She was a fashion designer and had made it herself, had given it to him for their ninth anniversary and pointed out all the special details—the silky material, the hand-embroidered rose.

She’d give him a hard time for sure.

“Damnit,” he said, thinking Yakko was listening. “I ruined Cindy’s shirt.”

Yakko knew about Cindy, of course. Everyone with access to Wi-Fi knew. Far from being jealous, Yakko asked about her with such enthusiasm that there could be no doubt that he was completely in love with her. He asked about her interests, her habits, her preferences; he asked, over and over, to be told the story of how she and John had met; he asked if she was really as nice as she was on screen.

He was always asking, “when can I meet her?”

To which John always replied, “when hell freezes over.”

He wasn’t jealous; he just thought it was funny. As if Cindy would ever be interested in a toon.

“Hurry up and get dressed,” John said when he didn’t receive an answer. “We don’t have much—”

He turned around, but Yakko was nowhere to be seen.

“...time.” He stared blankly at the empty room. Had he gone out? No, his disguise was still on the chair. He wouldn’t have left without it…would he?

“Yakko?” Tucking his shirt into his pants, John crossed the room. “Are you in the bathroom?”

His foot bumped into something warm and soft, and he stepped back, surprised. Yakko was lying on the floor, face-down, eyes closed. His hand, near his head, in its white glove, was like a dead thing.

John quickly knelt beside him and turned him gently onto his back. “Yakko,” he said, trying to keep the alarm out of his voice. He tapped his face, trying to rouse him.

To his shock, Yakko’s snow-white skin was burning hot.

Did toons get sick? No, they didn’t. Not for anything other than comedic effect, anyway. But this wasn’t a cartoon.

“Is this one of your jokes?” John asked. Yakko lay motionless in his arms, every inch of his skin on fire. John picked him up and laid him down on on the bed.

He had no idea what to do. After a while, he decided that Yakko would likely wake up on his own in a minute or two. John would drive him home, and if he really was sick, his dad would take care of it. Yakko would probably text him later, cancelling their date if necessary, and John would use the time to catch up on sleep instead—which, in all honesty, he should have been doing from the start.

He tied his shoes and checked his phone. Cindy had called yesterday; he made a mental note to call her back. He responded to a message from his agent and another from his assistant. He texted his drug dealer, a close friend named Chris, to let him know where they would rendezvous later.

Ten seconds later, Chris responded: prices r up

John texted, do i care

Chris responded, pics of ur boy

Bemused, John texted, in ur dreams

He glanced at the bed. Yakko hadn’t moved. Panic set in. Why wasn’t he moving? What was wrong with him?

He tried shaking him, then splashing cold water in his face. The droplets sizzled against his flaming skin, still as white as paper, as white as pearl.

There was no taking him home like this. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking.

His phone rang. He checked the display. It was Cindy. What was she doing awake at this hour?

“You _are_ awake,” she said, sounding pleased. “I knew it. Put down the damn phone and go to sleep.”

John didn’t know why he was surprised. “You called just to say that? What if I was actually asleep?”

“Well, you weren’t, were you? Don’t you think I know my fiancé?”

“Go to sleep, Cindy.”

“Okay,” she said, laughing. “Love you.”

“Love you,” John said, glancing at Yakko as he hung up. His sweet, lovely face was still as lifeless as a doll’s.

John’s phone rang again. He half-expected to see Cindy’s name pop up, but no—it was Chris again.

“Just tell me where to get one,” he said before John could even say hello. “If you’re not gonna share, just tell me to get one. After everything I’ve done for you?”

“Go to hell.” John hung up. Yakko still hadn’t moved. An idea occurred to him. He dialed Chris’s number again.

“You want to meet him?”

“I want to do more than meet him,” Chris said.

“Good,” John said. “Because you’re babysitting. I have to get to set, so you’re going to drive to the Château D’Amour, go up to room H27, and—”

“Are you kidding? You want me to babysit?”

“He’s sick or something. Just keep an eye on him, and when he wakes up, just drive him home. That’s it.”

“Toons can’t get sick.”

“That’s what I thought, but he’s burning up.” John crossed the room and sat on the bed, stroking Yakko’s hair. At every moment, he expected him to wake up, but his eyes remained closed. “Oh, and he’s unconscious,” John added. 

“Can't you just get Izzy to do it?” Izzy was John's assistant.

“At this hour?” John rubbed his face, wishing he could crawl back into bed, wrap his arms around his boyfriend, and stay like that for a week. Being a movie star wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Well, apart from the vulnerable, defenseless child stars—particularly the ones with no parents, inexhaustible stamina, and a talent for sucking cock.

“How much?”

John promised a large sum of money. Chris sighed. “I’ll be right there.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters in two days? Looks like someone's not doing their homework around here...not gonna say who...just saying

Yakko lived in the facility for three months.

When he came home, he was like a different person.

He hadn’t been able to write, as he’d promised. The doctors and scientists forbade communication with the outside world on the grounds that it would interfere with their work.

Wakko waited for him to remark on this, but, strangely enough, he didn't; in fact, he seemed to have forgotten his promise altogether. Instead, he hugged his siblings so tightly they couldn’t breathe, then asked them, grinning widely, if they’d behaved themselves in his absence.

“We blew up the chairman’s car,” Dot said. The chairman was the one who had decided to send Yakko away in the first place.

“Please tell me you took pictures,” Yakko said.

Dot seized his hand and dragged him into their room. Wakko followed, saying little. He studied Yakko closely, searching for any lingering signs of trauma.

A shiver ran down his spine. He turned around. Scratchy was following them. His eyes, like Wakko’s, were glued to Yakko, obviously searching for signs of trauma as well.

Yakko praised the photos Dot had taken of the chairman’s car—or, rather, what had remained of it. He told her that she was handy with a camera and should think about looking into photography if her acting career didn’t work out.

She punched him. “You’re the one who’s gonna need a new career after I tell the chairman it was your idea.”

“Does he know you did it?”

“Of course not.”

Yakko shuffled through the photos. He turned to Wakko, a huge grin on his face. “This is a good one.” He held up a photo of Wakko making a silly face while the car wreck smoldered in the background.

Before Wakko could say anything, Scratchy plucked the photo out of Yakko's hand. Then he confiscated the entire stack. All three children complained, but Scratchy was firm. “You should not have played this joke in the first place, but since you did, we must dispose of this evidence. We don’t want to risk getting in trouble, do we?”

They ate dinner as a family. Scratchy asked if Yakko had been fed properly in the facility. Yakko confessed that he’d missed having candy, but, as if to alleviate any concern, quickly added he was a “big boy” and capable of living without sugar for a few months.

“I mean, I’m not Wakko,” he said, flicking a pea across the table. It bounced off Wakko's nose. Wakko stood on his chair and threw a spoonful of mashed potatoes, triggering a food fight of epic proportions. Finally, Scratchy gathered all three children up in the tablecloth, brought them upstairs, and dumped them into bed.

They stayed awake for hours, playing checkers with a flashlight. Wakko and Dot told Yakko how much things had sucked while he was gone; without him, class was boring, and practical jokes were no fun. Parties were lame and there were no good movies. They would have gone insane if he’d stayed away another day.

After a few rounds of checkers, they began making fun of the chairman, calling him all sorts of horrible names and hoping he’d get hit by a bus or, better yet, a meteor.

Wakko didn’t ask the question they all had on their minds: now that Yakko was home, would Plotz give them their jobs back? Instead, he studied Yakko’s face. There was something strange about it, something he couldn’t put his finger on—something that was making it hard to look away.

Yakko noticed him staring. Wakko expected him to make some kind of joke, but Yakko just winked at him and, turning to Dot, raised the subject of the photos Scratchy had confiscated earlier. He wondered aloud if they could steal them back. “I wanna frame them. You guys made your big brother proud.”

Dot poked him. “You really missed us, huh?”

“Don’t be stupid.” Yakko pinched her cheek, causing her to giggle. “These three months have been like a vacation. I never wanted to come home.”

He went on and on, describing how much of a relief it’d been not to have to deal with two bratty, selfish siblings day in and day out. When he joked that it was now Wakko and Dot’s turn to be sent away, Wakko complained along with Dot, but deep down, he was rejoicing.

He never thought he’d see his brother in such good spirits again.

They fell asleep in a pile, towards morning. Scratchy was kind enough to let them sleep in. When they woke up, they had breakfast, and Scratchy injected Yakko’s arm with a dose of medicine that had been invented and perfected just for him. It was clear, like water, and came in a black plastic bottle, the label of which Wakko struggled with, but couldn’t figure out how to pronounce.

Yakko was cheerful. He told jokes without cease and gave hugs without warning. No one had seen him this happy in what may as well have been years.

Wakko waited for this façade to give. He knew that the facility Yakko had practically been imprisoned in must have been horrible. They’d probably strapped him down and done awful tests on him, treated him like a lab rat and kept him locked in a cell.

But, from the way he acted, no one could never tell. He was as happy as a clam, as bubbly as a schoolgirl. One time Dot told an offhand joke and he laughed so hard for so long he fell off his chair. As he rolled on the floor, Wakko and Dot had stared at him, half-amused, half-mystified. The joke hadn’t even been that funny.

“Is he acting strange?” Wakko had asked Dot later, when they were alone. Dot had denied it so confidently that Wakko was sure she’d noticed it, too.

But, he soon reasoned, who cared if Yakko was acting strange? He was so much like his old self, it was like he’d come back from the dead. Three months ago, he was drinking all night and sleeping all day, making excuses and getting in arguments, breaking things and breaking down and passing out in closets.

Now, he was devouring ice cream sundaes with gusto, burning through stacks of books and magazines, finishing his homework on time, scoring an A+ on all his tests, playing games with his siblings, and smiling, smiling, smiling. He smiled in class, at mealtimes, on errands; he smiled at Scratchy and Wakko and Dot; he smiled at himself in the mirror; he smiled at people he didn’t even know.

Wakko had begun to think maybe the facility hadn’t been so bad after all when, one evening, he looked up from a crayon drawing to see Yakko watching him.

They were the only two people in the room. Yakko was curled up on the sofa with _The Count of Monte Cristo_ in his lap, but he wasn't reading it. He studied Wakko, not saying a word, a thoughtful, almost calculating look on his face.

Wakko blinked, surprised. Before he could ask what was wrong, Yakko went back to reading.

Wakko went back to coloring. After a minute, he sneaked another glance at Yakko. He was fully engrossed in his novel.

Wakko finished his drawing and brought it over to him.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Yakko asked, closing his book.

“It’s us.” Wakko pointed to each family member in turn. “That’s you, that’s me, that’s Dot, and that’s Scratchy.”

“Let me see.” Yakko took the picture and examined it, tilting his head. “Geez, we gotta get you some art lessons.” Unsurprised, Wakko tried to take the drawing back, but Yakko held it out of his reach. “What crayons are you using? They’re not mine, are they?”

“You can share.”

“Don't touch my stuff.” Yakko stood up, holding the book under one arm and the drawing high above his head. Wakko jumped up and down, leaning on his brother’s torso for balance, but couldn’t quite reach it.

“Give it back!”

“You can share.” Yakko ran from the room, Wakko hot on his tail. From downstairs, Scratchy yelled at them to stop running in the tower.

Wakko seized his brother’s tail and bit it—playfully, not hard enough to hurt. Yakko swung the book at him, hitting his cheekbone with excessive force. Wakko loosened his grip on Yakko’s tail as stars danced in front of his eyes.

Yakko shoved him in the chest with both hands, knocking him onto his butt. Then he tore the drawing into pieces and dropped them on the floor.

Stunned, Wakko stared at what remained of his art. He’d worked so hard on it, and now it was gone. “Hey,” he protested, but it was too late. Confused and on the verge of tears, he looked at Yakko for an explanation.

Yakko raised the book as if to hit him again. Wakko flinched, bringing an arm up to shield himself. A bruise was already forming where he’d been hit initially. It hurt so badly that, if he wasn’t in shock, he probably would have been crying. 

Terrified, he waited, but nothing happened; when he looked again, Yakko was glaring at him.

“Use your own crayons,” he said before walking away.


	12. Chapter 12

Wakko stood on a chair in front of the bathroom mirror.

The bruise on his cheek was the size of a thumbprint, as blue as the midnight sky. It hurt to move the entire right half of his face (the ambidextrous Yakko had used his trusty left hand for the swing) and when he touched it, very gingerly, with the tip of a finger, the pain was enough to make him flinch.

He would need paint to cover it up.

The problem was that he couldn’t leave the bathroom. Dot had been knocking on the door for the past five minutes.

“What are you _do_ ing in there,” she complained. “I need to go!”

“Get lost.”

“Wakko?” A woman’s voice, kind and gentle, sounded through the door. Wakko’s heart skipped a beat. It was their new nanny. She was a cartoon cat and a total bombshell; if she saw him like this, he would kill himself.

“Wakko,” the nanny said, “sweetie, it’s your sister’s turn.”

Wakko didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust himself not to panic.

Where the hell was the paint? He’d already scoured every inch of the bathroom and hadn’t found any. The contents of the shelves and cabinets were strewn haphazardly all over the floor, but he didn’t have time to pick them up.

Gag paint wouldn’t work for something like this. He needed real paint. He needed real paint the exact same shade of white as his skin.

Why had Yakko hit him? He just didn’t understand. That book must have weighed three pounds.

He tried the gag paint. It didn’t work; the tone of the situation was all wrong. This wasn’t a cartoon, after all. This was serious.

If anyone found out what Yakko had done, they would send him straight back to the facility. Worse yet, the studio might decide to retire the Warners for good. They would be kicked off the lot, forced to fend for themselves in a world that hated toons unless they were safely behind a screen.

Desperate, he tried the gag paint again. It lasted about a minute before fading away.

He was out of options. A minute would have to do.

He applied the paint for a third time, then threw the bathroom door open as quickly as he could.

“Finally,” Dot said, shoving past him. She disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. A split second later, she yelled, “why is it a mess in here?”

Wakko tried to escape, but the nanny seized his wrist.

“Not so fast,” she said cheerfully. “I want to talk to you, young man.”

“I’m busy,” Wakko said. He tried to pull free, but her grip was too strong. If he wasn’t so attracted to her, he probably would’ve been annoyed.

“With what?”

“Things.”

“Did you finish your breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“What’s that on your face?” She seized his chin and tilted his face towards her. “Is that paint?”

Wakko pointed over her shoulder. “Look! It’s Bugs Bunny!”

“Where?” She turned around. Wakko wriggled free of her grip and ran upstairs.

He’d scarcely congratulated himself for his clever escape when he found himself in Yakko’s room.

It made sense. He often came here in times of trouble, for help or advice. He’d raced here on autopilot, conveniently forgetting that he and his brother were avoiding each other right now.

Yakko looked up. His eyes widened, and he jumped to his feet. Wakko flinched, half-expecting to be hit again.

The next thing he knew, Yakko was hugging him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”

For a moment, Wakko stood perfectly still. Then he hugged him back, nuzzling into the soft fluff of his chest. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” Yakko held him tightly. “I’m an idiot. I’ll never do it again, I swear.”

“It’s okay,” Wakko said, at a loss for words. Yakko let go and held him at arm’s distance, looking at the bruise.

“Geez,” he said. “I really got you good.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Wakko lied. “You’re not as strong as you think.”

Yakko smiled. “You need paint.”

He rifled through the desk for a set of acrylics he’d gotten for Christmas one year. The tube of white paint, no bigger than a crayon, had never been opened.

They sat down on the bed. With a paintbrush, Yakko carefully dabbed at Wakko’s cheek until the bruise was no longer visible.

“It’s not great,” he said when he was finished, “but it’ll do. Try to stick to the shadows.”

“Are you happy?” Wakko asked.

Yakko gave him a funny look as he screwed the cap back onto the paint tube. “What, about this?”

“No,” Wakko said quickly. “I mean, like, in general. That medicine, it’s supposed to make you happy, isn’t it?”

Yakko shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “I’m happy.” He elbowed his brother, giving him a lopsided grin. “I told you those doctors knew what they were doing.”

Wakko didn’t smile back. “You don’t seem happy.”

It had been on his mind for a while. What confused him most was that he seemed to be the only one who knew. He wasn’t smart, like Yakko, or intuitive, like Dot, or a certified psychiatrist, like Scratchy. He was just a regular kid. If anyone was going to notice something wrong, there was no reason why it should be him.

But the others, they all acted like everything had been fixed.

Wakko wished he could agree. If he really tried, he probably could. But there was something about the way Yakko smiled nowadays—more or less constantly, never seeming to grow tired of it—that worried him.

And that was _before_ he’d hit him.

He waited, expecting Yakko to pretend not to know what he was talking about, to laugh and brush him off. Instead, he sighed, his smile fading.

“Don’t mess things up for us.” He held up a forefinger and thumb with a millimeter’s distance between them. “We’re _this_ close to getting our show back.”

Wakko was stunned. For a long time, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. “You’re mean now,” he said finally, hurt.

“Mean?” A grin spread very slowly across Yakko's face. Then, without warning, he threw back his head and laughed. “You think _I’m_ mean?”

He laughed and laughed. Wakko glanced at the door. No one was nearby. Yakko was laughing like he’d gone truly insane, and Wakko was the only one witnessing it.

“You don’t know a thing about mean,” Yakko said, sobering suddenly. “You don’t know anything about _anything._ ” He stood up. “You don’t know—you don’t know— _anything!”_

“You could tell me,” Wakko said quietly. Yakko had never spoken of his trauma. He’ll talk when he’s ready, Scratchy had assured them, but months and months had gone by, and it still hadn’t happened.

Wakko wanted his brother to talk to him. He wanted to help him.

“Why would I tell _you_?” Yakko asked coldly.

Wakko said nothing. He sat calmly, holding his brother’s gaze, and waited.

Yakko hesitated. Little by little, the anger seemed to drain out of him. He went to the door, stuck his head out, and scanned the hall. No one was there.

He closed the door and sat down on the bed. Wakko’s heart began to race. Was his brother about to confide in him?

“Come closer,” Yakko said. Wakko leaned towards him. “Closer.” Yakko pulled him nearer with one hand on his shoulder. He was gentle enough that Wakko could easily have pulled away if he wanted, but he had no reason to, so he didn’t.

Yakko lowered his mouth to Wakko's ear as if to whisper into it. He bit it. Wakko gasped and tried to pull away. Yakko tightened his grip until it was painful, then seized Wakko’s chin, tightly, in one hand, holding him steady. He bit again, harder.

 _“Ow,”_ Wakko cried out, his eyes wide, but his brother didn’t let him go. He struggled, but Yakko’s teeth sank down harder and harder, and his grip grew tighter and tighter, and after a minute Wakko finally gave up, because it hurt so much.

Yakko’s grip lessened, and his teeth, still locked around Wakko’s ear, tugged more gently. His tongue grazed the silken skin.

Wakko shut his eyes and whimpered. Yakko didn’t seem to notice. There was a distinct sucking noise, a playful bite. Then, after what felt like a year, he let go.

In a daze, Wakko stumbled from the room. It’d scarcely been fifteen minutes since he went in.

The nanny intercepted him almost immediately. “There you are,” she said. She saw the look on his face, and concern knit her brows. “Are you alright?”

“He's scared,” Yakko said, emerging from his room with a massive smile. His eyes locked with Wakko's, but there was no guilt, no apology, no acknowledgment whatsoever of what he'd just done. “We were watching the Blair Witch Project.”

The nanny put her hands on her hips. “No more horror mockumentaries,” she said. “Now, come on. We’re going to the mall.”

“I’ll buy you something from Victoria’s Secret,” Yakko said to her with a wink.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains graphic depictions of rape. 
> 
> Double warning: this chapter does NOT contain incest.
> 
> Thank you. Good night. ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

Chris did something that John had never done. He took pictures. Lots of pictures.

Yakko couldn’t stop him. He was weak, feverish, and exhausted. His limbs weighed a ton, and his head hurt, and pain afflicted every inch of his body.

He tried to scream, but couldn’t. His lungs burned; he was suffocating.

“Don’t you dare tell,” Chris said as he pounded into him. His thrusts were ruthless, hard and fast. Yakko cried his eyes out, begged and pleaded for mercy, but Chris refused to listen; moreover, he seemed to enjoy his suffering. “Don’t ever tell.”

Though he didn’t say it out loud, the threat was implicit: don’t tell John, or these images go public, and your life is over.

By the time Yakko was finally allowed to go home (numbed with pills, courtesy of his rapist), everyone else was already awake. He could hear their footsteps on the upper floor. Half-unseeing, clinging to the banister for dear life, he tried to sneak upstairs, only to be stopped by Scratchy.

“Oh,” said the doctor, sounding surprised. “There you are. I was not seeing you in the nursery.”

“I was just getting a glass of water,” Yakko said in a perfect imitation of a normal voice. “What’s for breakfast?”

Scratchy didn’t answer. Instead he leaned down and gave Yakko’s head a sniff. Then he wrinkled his nose. “What is that smell?”

“Smell?” Yakko repeated, breaking into a nauseous sweat.

“I am smelling something on you,” the doctor said suspiciously, folding his arms. “Something…odd. What have you been doing?”

Yakko shrugged—very carefully, because, despite the pills, even the smallest of movements hurt him—and smiled as convincingly as he knew how (which, in his line of work, was considerably). “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” the doctor repeated, unimpressed, but before he could say anything else, Wakko and Dot came racing down the stairs like a pair of high-speed locomotives. They were arguing, and Scratchy was forced to step in between them to prevent a fistfight.

During the chaos, Yakko crept upstairs. He sealed himself in the bathroom and sank down to the floor, closing his eyes.

He would tell John about the pictures. John would know what to do.

Then again, he reasoned, staring at the floor between his feet, if those pictures were released, his life was over. Was it really worth the risk?

If he didn’t say anything, Chris would have no reason to harm him. He would keep his mouth shut, he decided. It was the obvious thing to do.

Pictures. Someone had taken pictures of him. A friend of John’s, no less. Why had John left him alone with someone like that? What was he thinking? 

He dialed John’s number. No answer. 

With little enthusiasm and no choice whatsoever, he joined his family for breakfast. His siblings were still arguing, and Scratchy was on a call, cradling the phone between his shoulder and his ear while pouring orange juice with one hand and carrying a frying pan in the other. The phone cord had gotten tangled several times around his waist, but he didn’t seem to realize it.

No one paid Yakko the slightest bit of attention. Seated at the very edge of his chair, he bit the corner off a piece of buttered toast and forced himself to chew; it tasted like cardboard. He switched his own brimming plate with Wakko’s empty one. Wakko, bottomless void of insatiable hunger that he was, devoured both breakfasts without batting an eye.

Yakko marveled at him without saying anything. How could such a small thing hold so much food?

“Can you chew with your mouth closed?” he asked, irritated, the first words he’d spoken since sitting down. Wakko ignored him. Bypassing his glass, he emptied the jug of orange juice into his mouth and burped loudly. Yakko rolled his eyes, then made eye contact with Dot, who was equally disgusted by the middle Warner’s behavior.

“Are we sure he’s related?” she asked, crinkling her nose. Yakko grinned, but didn’t say anything.

“Are you okay?” Dot asked. “You’ve been quiet all morning.”

“I had a weird dream,” Yakko lied with ease. “Wanna hear about it?”

“Not really.”

Yakko spent the rest of breakfast and the car ride to set fabricating details of a vivid dream involving himself, a forest made of gummy candy, and Marilyn Monroe. Disinterested, his siblings ignored him, which, exactly according to plan, allowed him to text John, right in front of them, without their notice.

>Where did u go

>hello

>answer me

>John

>Johnnn

Finally, almost an hour later, just as Yakko was going over the script one last time, his phone buzzed. 

<Ttyl busy

Yakko wanted to throw his phone. He wanted to go home and spend the rest of the day in bed. He wanted to scream and burst into tears.

Instead, he took a deep, calming breath, and texted John back.

>I always knew you were a creep

>If you ever come near me again I’ll call the police

Two minutes later, his phone rang. He put it on silent and ignored it for the rest of the day. It felt as if a crushing weight had been lifted off him; when, at a quarter to eight, they wrapped up, the director praised him for doing such an excellent job. He was sure to rub this in his siblings’ faces; they never got as much praise as he did.

“Big deal,” said Dot. “They give you all the best lines. Obviously, they’re going to notice you more.”

“Well, maybe if you had my talent and charm—and, uhhh, devastating good looks.” He grinned at her. She rolled her eyes. Wakko paid no attention to either of him; he was chugging a forty-ounce cherry soda through a straw.

Yakko had two missed calls from John. He was disappointed; only two? Did he really care that little?

Whatever, he told himself. It didn’t matter what John thought. Not anymore.

After dinner, he scrolled through John’s texts, of which there were sixteen, all sent at approximately the same time—about twelve in the afternoon.

<We’ll talk tonight

<He didn’t hurt you did he

<Yakko

<Pls answer

<You know I love you

<Honey pls

<How are you feeling

<Are you sick

<Sweetie I love you

<Talk tonight ok

<Yakko

<Honey

<I know you have ur phone

<Honey I love you so much. Please don’t be mad you know what my schedule is like 

<We’ll talk tonight ok love

<Gtg love you

The last text was sprinkled with heart emojis. Sitting on the curb, alone beneath the pitch-black sky, Yakko read it over and over until John’s headlights came into view. Then he stood up, crossing his arms, anger bubbling in his chest.

John parked. Yakko made no move to get in the car. John got out, but didn’t turn off the engine or even close the door.

“You left me,” Yakko said before John could say anything. John tried to hug him, but he dodged and took several steps back. “You never cared about me, did you?” he said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have left me with that...” He tried to think of a horrible enough insult and failed. “...man.”

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Yakko turned to storm away. John grabbed his arm and forcibly dragged him into a tight hug. Yakko struggled, but John’s strength far outmatched his own. He was helpless.

“Get off me,” he demanded, still struggling. “Get your hands off me, you—creep!”

“Shh.” John’s voice was soothing. “Someone will hear.”

Yakko gradually stopped struggling. Finally, John let him go. “You’re acting weirder than usual today,” he remarked, as if Yakko was a child who was misbehaving, but in an amusing way. Yakko’s anger intensified; he swallowed it down.

“Who was that guy?” he demanded.

“A friend. You’re sure he didn’t hurt you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Then what are you so worked up about?” John seemed annoyed. “Come on, get in the car. We’ll talk more when we get there.”

“I don’t want to go with you,” Yakko said. Suddenly ashamed, he dropped his gaze to the street; his cheeks were warm, and there was a funny ache in his chest that hadn’t been there when he’d announced their break-up over text. “I told you, we’re done.”

John cupped Yakko’s chin, trying to get him to meet his eyes, but the child stubbornly avoided them. “Honey,” John said softly, “why are you so upset?”

Yakko’s eyes burned. He sniffled and wiped them with the back of his hand. He longed to confess everything, everything; what Chris had done, what he was being forced to keep secret, why every part of him ached so badly that he couldn't possibly have sex tonight. Instead, he had to settle for the next best thing. “You gave me an STD, you jerk.”

John stared at him blankly. “I don’t have any STDs?”

“Yes, you do.” Yakko refused to cry, he _refused_ to. “It’s a pretty common one. Only affects toons.”

“Maybe you’re just sick,” John suggested, reluctant to take the blame. “It could be a fever, or—”

“I know the symptoms,” Yakko interrupted impatiently. “I read about it in _A History of Cartoons_. The first known case was in 1923 between a toon raccoon named Lily and a—”

“ _A History of Cartoons?_ ”

“Light reading.” Yakko shrugged, forgetting to mention that the book was well over a thousand pages.

“Fine,” John said, giving up. “I guess that explains why you fainted.” He paused. “So...what do we do?”

“Well, it’s not like I can go to a doctor, can I?” For the millionth time that day, the urge to burst into tears was nearly overwhelming. Yakko put his face in his hands and drew a ragged breath. “Just leave me alone.”

“Come to the hotel.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Come on. I’ll fix this, I promise. You trust me, don’t you?” 

Yakko stood completely still. For a moment, it looked like he might agree.

He ran. He was fast, but not fast enough; John chased him down, wrapped his arms around him, and picked him up. Struggling desperately, Yakko started to cry again. He wanted to go home. Was that so much to ask? He just wanted to go home.

“Please,” he gasped through his tears. “Please—” He couldn’t manage a full sentence. John threw him in the back of the car and slammed the door. Yakko tried to open it. It didn’t budge. The child safety lock was on.

He screamed at the top of his lungs. John got in the car and slammed the door, threw it into drive and took off. Yakko collapsed on the floor of the vehicle, screaming. Tears poured down his cheeks. He screamed and screamed.

John didn’t drive them to the hotel. He drove them to the middle of nowhere. There were no people, no buildings, no trees, no nothing—just miles and miles of desert in every direction. 

John climbed into the backseat, pinned Yakko’s arms, and straddled his waist so that he couldn’t move. Yakko tried to free himself, but John was too heavy, too strong, and his grip was like iron.

Yakko’s throat burned with screaming. He screamed until he couldn’t scream anymore. Then he sobbed like the world was ending. John waited patiently for him to calm down.

“Are you done?” he asked, when Yakko had spent all his energy. Yakko hiccuped, tears streaming down his cheeks, and stubbornly refused to respond. “Are you going to be good?” John asked.

“Please let me go,” Yakko begged, after a minute, in a broken voice. “I won’t tell anyone about us, I swear. Please just let me go.”

“Are you going to be good?”

Yakko lay beneath the much larger, much older man for what felt like forever. It was dark, so dark, and he was so scared, but he knew no one would save him. He wished Scratchy or Hello Nurse were here; he wished he hadn’t made so many stupid mistakes. 

Finally, hiccuping, he nodded.

John started taking off both their clothes. Yakko tried one last time to reason with him. “You were too rough last night,” he said. “I had a full day of work today.”

“So did I.”

“Please, John, please can we do something else? Anything but that, _please_. I don’t want to.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Yakko gave up hope. “Do you have any lube?” he asked, still hiccuping, after a pause.

“Just relax.”

“I don’t want to do it without lube.”

“Will you calm down? I have it right here.”

Yakko grew quiet. He wished he were somewhere else, anywhere else.

John positioned Yakko on hands and knees. Yakko squirmed, fresh tears springing forth. John moaned, then sighed.

Yakko sobbed, shaking his head. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. Take it out, please take it out.”

“Shh,” John whispered. He rolled his hips, slowly, gently. “You can do this. I know you can.”

“I can’t,” Yakko wailed, but John shushed him, putting a hand over his mouth.

It hurt. How was he going to work tomorrow? He’d scarcely managed it today. Toons didn’t need sleep, not the same way humans did, but he was being deprived to an unreasonable degree. People would start to notice.

John whispered in his ear, encouraging him, calling him all sorts of affectionate names. “You’re so good at this,” he kept saying. Seeing as there were no sheets to grab, Yakko sank his teeth into his own wrist. He bit until he tasted ink. Then he bit until he tasted paper.

It went on for what felt like years. By the end, Yakko was as lifeless as a drawing of himself.

John cleaned them both up and planted a kiss on Yakko’s smooth, white forehead. “See? That wasn't so bad.”

Yakko didn’t flinch; he didn’t care anymore.


	14. Chapter 14

It rained on the way to the mall.

Dot watched the droplets slide down the window. With the tip of her finger, she traced a flower shape on the glass.

Things were slowly going back to normal. Yakko was his old self again—grinning, sarcastic, mischievous. He sang songs and danced, recited Shakespeare with household items as props, and played Scott Joplin piano rags from start to finish...with a blindfold on. He told dad jokes and “borrowed” puns from Pun-of-the-Day. He was eager to go places—to the movies, to the candy store, to the mall.

Dot sneaked a peek at him. He was sitting in the middle seat, between her and Wakko. It was quiet, and no one was saying anything, but still he smiled—as if he had something funny on his mind, or as if he was simply in a good mood.

Dot was hopeful about their future. Though none of them have spoken about it, they knew a new season of _Animaniacs_ was on the table. It would probably be released sometime in the summer, which meant filming could begin any day now—which meant Plotz could call them at any minute.

He would summon them up to his office. “Alright, Warners,” he would shout in his bellowing, angry voice, “you’re back on the air. But mark my words, you little pests: one wrong move, and you’re _FINISHED!”_

Dot missed that voice. She couldn’t wait to hear it again; she was practically on the edge of her seat.

She glanced at the nanny’s cell phone, in her purse on the floor. She waited, hoping it would light up, that the cheerful ringtone would sound.

No ringtone. Instead, she heard a giggle. Her heart sank. Not again, she thought, please not again. The last one had been only this morning.

She held her breath, not daring to look to her right. To her relief, silence resumed. No giggling, no talking—just the engine humming and raindrops spattering the roof. After a minute, she was able to herself she hadn’t heard anything to begin with—that she’d only imagined it.

Yakko giggled again. There was another, much shorter silence. Then he giggled a third time.

Resigned, Dot looked at him. He had a hand pressed to his mouth in an attempt to stifle the sound, but it wasn’t working. His eyes were shut tightly and his brows were furrowed, as if he were in physical pain; it was obvious he didn’t like this any more than she did.

It wasn’t his fault. Feeling bad for him, Dot leaned forward in her chair. “Wakko,” she hissed.

Wakko was staring out of the window. She had to call his name six times before he jumped and turned around, startled, as if he’d forgotten where he was. “What?” he asked, looking at her blankly, wide-eyed, like he’d just been jolted aggressively out of some kind of daydream.

By then, Yakko’s suppressed giggles had evolved into peals of full-on laughter. He had two hands pressed to his mouth, and his shoulders were tensed. Dot didn’t feel like she needed to point out the obvious, but Wakko looked so oblivious that, with a sigh, she did it anyway. “He’s doing it again.”

Wakko didn’t glance at Yakko, nor did he look surprised (so he _had_ noticed it! Then what was with that stupid look on his face?) “Tell nanny,” he said, turning to gaze out the window again, resting his chin in his hand.

Dot was profoundly annoyed. Wakko, it seemed, had reached a new level of uselessness. Was she really the only functional sibling left? It was depressing to think about.

She scooted forward in her seat, then tapped the nanny’s shoulder. “He’s doing it again.”

“Again?” Lowering the radio, the nanny glanced over her shoulder at Yakko. Her eyes were full of well-intended worry. “But the last one was just this morning.”

“Where’s the notebook?” Dot asked. The nanny indicated her purse, but whatever verbal response she gave was drowned out by a sudden burst of laughter from Yakko. Dot adjusted her seatbelt until she was almost out of her seat. She rifled in the nanny’s purse until she found the notebook.

Sitting back, she flipped it open. Then she glanced at the clock. It was 1:03 pm. Yakko had first started laughing maybe four minutes ago. In the notebook, under today’s date, she wrote 12:59 pm. Then she waited, pen and notebook in her lap, for it to stop.

“So it’s a side effect?” she’d repeated, not certain she’d heard right, the first time Scratchy had explained it. It had been about a week ago, in the kitchen, by the window. He’d put the phone down, adjusted his glasses, and sighed, looking more exhausted than she’d ever seen him.

“Just a small one,” he’d clarified. “And quite unexpected, they tell me. Possibly it will wear off. We shall see.”

He’d explained that it was imperative they log every single seizure (“for lack of a better word,” he’d added quickly. Dot was not particularly reassured that their supposed medical professional didn’t know the technical term for these…whatever-you-call-thems—sudden attacks of unprompted, unmitigated, uncontrollable laughter—but for the sake of avoiding any more stress than was absolutely necessary she chalked it up to his only knowing English as a second language).

Yakko had asked, in a tone that was clearly intended to be light, exactly why this “side effect” had only started now. Scratchy had not been able to answer him. “More research is needed,” he’d confessed. “This case is very unique.”

Yakko had shrugged like he didn’t care. “After all,” he’d later said, “a little laughter never hurt anybody. I don’t know about you guys, but laughter is one of my favorite things.”

Dot flipped through the notebook. They’d filled two pages so far. The attacks came at random times, in no discernible pattern.

The first one had occurred two weeks ago. They’d been smack in the middle of breakfast when, out of nowhere, Yakko had begun to giggle. Scratchy, eyebrows raised in surprise, had asked him what was funny. He hadn’t answered; instead, he’d shaken his head, set down his fork, and put his head in one hand. After another minute, he’d pressed his hands to his mouth. In spite of his best efforts, his laughter had gradually gotten worse and worse.

They’d all stared at him. He’d laughed and laughed, helplessly, unable to stop. Scratchy had finally told Wakko and Dot to go watch TV in the living room while he tried to figure out what was going on.

Of course, they hadn’t listened; of course, they’d eavesdropped on his conversation with the people at the facility. They hadn’t gleaned much from it, but, from the looks of things, neither had Scratchy. He’d slammed the phone down in annoyance. By then, Yakko had begun to sober up. He still giggled every now and then, but much less frequently.

“I’m—heh—sorry,” he’d stammered into his hand. The grin on his face looked painful. Wakko and Dot, peering through the crack in the kitchen door, didn’t dare look at each other, couldn’t have been persuaded to look away from what was happening for even a moment.

“How about a glass of water?” Scratchy had suggested. Yakko had shaken his head. 

“N-no,” he’d said, gulping for air; he took a deep breath, still smiling. “I’m—I’m sorry I lied.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Don’t make me laugh right now. It hurts.” Yakko had rubbed his cheeks with both hands, flexing his facial muscles. He’d pulled them downwards, moaning in pain. “Geez, what was that?”

“I think it was—”

“No, don't distract me. I wanted to say I’m sorry.” Yakko had avoided eye contact, but continued rubbing his cheeks. “I'm sorry, doc, I really am. I should’ve told you from the start.”

“Told me—?”

“About everything, everything.”

There had been a silence. Doctor Scratchansniff had sat down. “I owe you an apology, as well,” he’d said. “I am afraid I was not a very good guardian.”

There’d been an uncertain, awkward pause. “Call it even?” Yakko had suggested.

Scratchy hadn't been able to suppress a smile.


	15. Chapter 15

Yakko tugged on Dot’s arm. “I have to tell you something.”

She resisted, not wanting to part with the cute doll she’d just found. It was a replica of herself, complete with all the right details—the yellow flower, the pink skirt, the cherry-red nose. When she pulled the string on it, her voice said, _“Helloooooo Nurse!”_

“Do you think nanny would buy this for me?” she asked.

“You don’t need any more toys.” To her annoyance, Yakko took the doll out of her hands and put it back on the shelf. Then he pulled her by the arm behind a rack of clothing, at the very edge of the store, out of sight of everyone else. He crouched down; she followed suit.

“What’s the big idea?” she demanded, pulling her arm out of his grip.

“I need you to do me a favor,” Yakko said, as if this was a perfectly normal place to have a conversation.

“What?”

“You know that notebook you guys have been using?”

“What about it?”

“I need you to…revise it a little.”

She frowned, not understanding. “Revise?”

Yakko spoke as if he'd given the matter plenty of thought. “Look, people can’t know how often I’ve been messing up. You guys have been logging these things _every single time_ and if Plotz or the chairman finds out—”

“What? You’re scared that they’re gonna do something?” A thought occurred to her; it clicked, and her heart sank as she realized what Yakko was asking her to do. “You think they won’t put us back on the air?”

Yakko grinned a big grin and pinched her cheek. “That’s my sister—always right on the ball.”

“Are you kidding?” Dot was in disbelief. “So, what? You want me to make it seem like you’re having fewer seizures than you actually are?”

He grinned even wider. So it was true; he wanted her to sabotage the notebook. He was essentially asking her to sabotage his own health.

She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. Wasn’t Dr. Scratchansniff always saying that if they didn’t tell him what was wrong, he wouldn’t be able to fix it? If she hid Yakko’s seizures, they wouldn’t get better. They might even get worse.

And here Yakko was, proposing that exact idea with a smile, as if he couldn’t see anything wrong with it.

“Bingo.” He hugged her. “And they say you’re just a pretty face.”

Despite the flattery, which was usually sufficient to get her to do anything, Dot was growing more ambivalent by the moment. She spoke as sarcastically as she knew how. “So, you want me to just use white-out, or—?”

“Sure,” he said, “or, you could tear out the old pages and write all new ones. I’ve seen your penmanship, it’s flawless. You can forge everyone’s handwriting and just, I don’t know, leave out an entry or two…or twenty.”

“Twenty?” She had crossed the line from uncertainty to extreme reluctance and it must have shown on her face, because Yakko suddenly started talking much faster.

“I promise it’s not as bad as it sounds, it’s just that when you put these things down on paper they look worse than they really are and it’s not like we need the odds to be stacked any higher against us. I’m trying to do us all a favor here. Do you really think it’s fair for them to take away our careers and pretty much our lives just because I have some very minor issues with my prescription—which, by the way, it’s not like I’ll be taking forever?”

“No.”

“I’ll help you if you want,” Yakko reassured her. He hesitated. “And another thing—from now on, can you just kind of…pretend to log entries, but not really?”

She stared at him. Suddenly, she wished she hadn't agreed to follow him back here. She wanted to go back to shopping, to the cute little doll with her face and her catchphrases, to the main part of the store with all the normal people walking around. She wanted to blend into them and pretend everything was fine. She wanted to not be here right now.

She wanted things to be normal. Or, at the very least, she wanted to go back to believing they were.

“You want me not to log your seizures anymore,” she said finally. It wasn’t a question.

Yakko’s smile faltered so slightly that anyone other than his sister wouldn’t have noticed it. “They’re not seizures, per se. They’re just…” he glanced aside, casting about for the right euphemism.

“A side effect?” Dot supplied helpfully, allowing her ambivalence to show in her tone. Yakko hugged her again.

“You’re the best.”

“Hold on now, I haven’t agreed yet,” she said, shoving him away with a hand on his face. “I don’t think this is a good idea. Dr. Scratchansniff said we’re supposed to report every last ‘side effect—’” she made sarcastic air quotes with her fingers, which Yakko pretended not to see— “so that those tools at the facility can re-tool your medicine.”

“They don’t have to re-tool anything,” Yakko said, rolling his eyes, as if he was stating the obvious. “Scratchy said it’s going to wear off.”

“He said it _might_ wear off,” Dot corrected.

Yakko didn’t argue; instead, he pressed his hands together, pleading. “Dot, please. I need you to agree to this. Do you really want to be stuck in that tower any longer than we have to?”

“No,” Dot said without a trace of hesitation.

“You want to get back on the air, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, uncertainly, after a moment. She sensed that she was being manipulated, but couldn’t figure out how.

“And you trust me, right?”

Dot looked at him. His smile was so wide and earnest. He seemed to be saying, I know I can trust you. I know you want to help me.

Suddenly, for no apparent reason, she was reminded of _Wakko’s Wish._ That movie was so touchy-feely; she loved it. She loved every minute of it. She loved when Yakko cuddled her in bed and told her stories about their parents; she loved when he tucked her in and kissed her good-night, just like any loving father would have done.

Any viewing audience would have thought that was their nightly routine.

It wasn’t since the filming of that movie—of that exact scene—that he’d looked at her so directly, letting her see right into his soul.

Back then, his soul had said, _I love you. I'll do anything to protect you._

Now, his soul was saying, _please help me._

Later, back at the tower, after she’d stolen the notebook from Dr. Scratchansniff’s things and torn out all the pages and recopied the entries according to Yakko’s specific instructions (he really had given this a great deal of thought, and had a clear explanation for which entries he'd chosen and why) a thought occurred to her. She brought the notebook to him in his room. He punched her shoulder lightly. 

“I owe you one.”

“Does Wakko know about this?”

Yakko shrugged, pouring over the notebook. “He doesn’t have to, he never writes entries. His handwriting is unintelligible.” He wasn’t wrong about that. “This isn’t really a Wakko-type operation,” he added matter-of-factly.

Dot shrugged and folded her arms. “It just seems like the type of thing you’d ask him to do, not me. He does anything you say, y’know.”

Yakko grinned, even though Dot hadn't been joking. “Yeah. Kid’s a few cards short of a full deck.”

Well, he’d have to be, to listen to you, Dot wanted to say, but she refused to let herself get distracted. “So what if he finds out and then tells on us? You don’t think we’d be in big trouble?”

“He won’t even notice.”

“He’s been acting really weird lately,” she said. “Are you sure you didn’t tell him?”

Yakko looked up. “Dot, he can’t keep secrets. You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

“All I'm saying is he's been acting weird.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s so…quiet. Yesterday I watched him play checkers against himself for nine hours.”

“So?” Yakko went back to the notebook. “Seems pretty on-brand for Wakko.”

“He didn’t make a single move.” Dot swiped the notebook and backed away with it. Yakko looked annoyed, but he didn’t get up or try to chase her. “You know how he gets about checkers. One time he blew three holes in the side of the tower because he was smack-talking _himself_.”

Yakko was decidedly not smiling anymore; he looked annoyed, almost defensive. “Well, if you’re so worried about him, why don’t you go ask him what’s wrong?” He reached for the notebook. “How should I know?”

Dot backed away, holding the notebook out of his reach. “What did you say to him? You said something weird, I know it. You made him upset.”

Yakko didn't reply. She raised her voice, refusing to be ignored. “What did you say to him? I’m serious, Yakko, tell me.”

“Nothing. I just—I told him a little about John.” Yakko winced and smacked a palm to his face, as if he’d just said something he hadn’t intended to at all.

Dot was quiet. Yakko had never said John’s name in front of her before.

Yakko reached for the notebook; she handed it to him. “Tell me,” she said bluntly.

“Nothing. It’s not for little girls. I don’t even know why I told him. Just—” he saw the look on her face and sighed again, rubbing his eyes as if he had a headache. “It’s nothing. I swear.”

“Yakko.” 

“I told him about the one time John bought me a milkshake at that place that the three of us usually go to. I don’t know why, okay, I just—Wakko wanted to go there and I didn’t want to and he kept asking me why and trying to drag me down there and I just had to tell him.” He couldn’t look at her. “Actually, I kind of yelled at him.”

Dot was silent. She couldn't think of a single thing to say that didn’t seem grossly inadequate. “You went with John to our milkshake place?” she asked, quietly. The name, when she said it, tasted like filth.

Yakko shrugged, looking at the book, not at her. “Sure.”

“Oh.” She didn’t think she could ever look at that place the same way again. Now she understood why Wakko was upset. Milkshakes had just been ruined for him forever. It was as if someone had ruined geography for Yakko, or lipgloss for Dot.

She mulled it over. Could that really be it? An image of Wakko, staring intently at the checkerboard, but not making a move, appeared in her mind.

He’d looked sad.

Yakko was ushering her out the door.

“Thanks for your help,” he said. “I’m sorry about—look, why don’t you get some sleep, alright? We’ll talk in the morning.”

She wanted to protest, but by the time she’d thought of what she wanted to say, he’d already closed the door. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter preview! I’ll post the rest eventually. Just wanted to let you all know I’m not quite dead yet, although depression is kicking my ass

At first, she thought he was talking to himself. Then she realized he was on the phone. She lingered at the threshold, trying to eavesdrop, but he noticed her and slammed the receiver down. “Nothing,” he said quickly.

Dot pushed the door open and entered the room, picking her way through the toys that were strewn all over the floor. Her nose crinkled involuntarily; why was it always such a mess in here?

“Why is it always such a mess in here?” she asked.

“Go away.” Wakko threw himself down on the bed and pretended to read a magazine.

“Who were you talking to?”

“No one.”

Dot pretended to take an interest in a doll that was lying near her feet. She picked it up and straightened its pinafore, watching her brother out of the corner of her eye. She saw him glance at the phone while he thought she wasn't looking. She wished she could ask him who he was talking to, but there was no way he was going to tell her, and no way she could find out.

She sat down on his bed, propping the red-haired ragdoll in her lap. It had round button eyes and rosy cheeks. “Isn't this mine?” she asked.

“I don't know.”

“Can I have it?”

“If you want.”

He didn't seem thrilled she was bothering him, but it didn't seem like he was going to kick her out anytime soon (not that he could have if he'd tried). She sighed melodramatically and gave the doll a hug. “I hate Yakko,” she said. “He thinks he knows everything.”

Wakko's ears perked up. “Why? What'd he say?”

“He thinks I can't make coffee by myself—”

“Well, you can't.”

“—and he always points out all my spelling mistakes.”

“He does that to me, too.”

“Yesterday he made a huge deal because I spelled sesquicentennial with one n instead of two.”

“Sesqui-what?”

“Is it just me, or has he been more annoying than usual lately?”

“I don't know.”


End file.
